


don't think too much (just bust that kick)

by fullybackfired



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Accidental Sex, Accidental Stimulation, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, and Oikawa Tooru: plan wrecker, because that's literally all this is, featuring 'why is this happening to me' iwaizumi hajime, i hope you want drunk boys rolling around and accidentally rubbing off on each other, update: now with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-04 14:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullybackfired/pseuds/fullybackfired
Summary: In which Oikawa and Iwaizumi have a confusing, drunken encounter and then deal with the (sticky) consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Love Game" by Lady Gaga, because what the hell else was I supposed to do.

It’s a Saturday night, Oikawa’s parents are away for the weekend, and Hajime is less than a beer away from actually agreeing with one of Hanamaki’s shitty ideas.  The main takeaway here is that he’s _less than a beer away_ , as in _not yet at that point_.

“No.  Absolutely not.”

“Iwaizumi,” Hanamaki slurred back, sullen and serious from where he hung upside down off the couch.  Neither the alcohol nor the gravity were doing his face any favors, and Hajime admired the truly remarkable shade of burgundy it was turning from his own position on the floor.  “My man.  My hero.  My strong, handsome, capable idol.  Don’t tell me that you challenging Ushiwaka to a very public, very shirtless arm wrestling match isn’t the best idea you’ve ever heard.  Don’t tell me that you would pass up on the chance to bring fame and glory to all of Aobajousai.”

Hajime felt his eyes roll so hard that he was sure they were going to pop out and continue on across the floor and into the kitchen.  “See, that’s the thing.  You keep trying to sneak ‘shirtless’ in there as if I’m going to pretend that it makes any sense.”

“It’s for the people, Iwaizumi,” Matsukawa assured, his eyes closed peacefully.  One of his legs was thrown across Hanamaki’s stomach and the other was thrown up on the back of his couch.  His head was pillowed on one of the armrests and his hands were folded across his chest like he was part of a therapy session in some TV drama.  “The people want to see.  The people _need_ to see.”

Hajime scowled.  “Ushijima’s got over 10 cm and 10 kg on me.  Are you saying that you want me to look like a toothpick next to him?  Because I would.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa gasped.  He was lying starfished on the floor perpendicular to Hajime, but lifted his head up in order to shoot him a scandalized look.  “Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that.  Ushiwaka may be an actual lump of concrete, but that doesn’t make you any less of a muscly brute.”

“Hmm, that was almost a compliment, Iwaizumi!” Hanamaki cackled as Hajime threw an empty bottle at Oikawa’s head.  “If Oikawa is confident in your beefy biceps, everyone else definitely will be.”

“No, they won’t, because none of this is actually going to happen.”

Hajime could tell that Hanamaki was about to retaliate, could see it in the determined twist of his mouth, but gravity got the best of him before he got his chance and he tumbled off the couch in an ungraceful heap.  He groaned and cradled his head as the room dissolved into cruel laughter, tears streaming down Matsukawa’s face as he rolled off the couch to collect his friend into his arms in a parody of comfort.

“My poor, sweet Takahiro.  How cruel the world, how treacherous—” he began, petting haphazardly at Hanamaki’s hair.  Hanamaki leaned into it for a moment before freezing up and slapping a hand to his mouth, cheeks bulging.

“Oh no, oh no no no no—” Oikawa babbled, eyes growing wide as he launched himself off the floor and ran into the kitchen to grab a garbage bin.  His speed and coordination were pretty impressive considering that just thirty minutes previous he’d narrowly avoided falling face-first into the glass coffee table.  “You are _not_ vomiting on my mother’s new carpet or I swear to god I’ll make Iwa-chan murder you.”

“Hey!  I’m not you’re personal hitman!” Hajime shouted in Oikawa’s general direction, adding his hands over the top of Hanamaki’s (and now Matsukawa’s) like they could hold it all in through sheer force.  Hanamaki’s eyes were growing more panicked by the second.  They only let go when Oikawa returned to the living room and thrust the bin in front of Hanamaki’s face, and then there were approximately three seconds of tense anticipation before Hanamaki’s entire body relaxed and he smiled up at them sloppily.  “Yo, waddup!  I’m good, false alarm.”

They all groaned.  Oikawa shot him a venomous glare, snatching the garbage bin back to his chest and stomping it back toward the kitchen.  Hajime and Matsukawa helped Hanamaki to his feet in the meantime, the three of them swaying a bit.  “Alright, friends,” Matsukawa drawled.  “It’s about time to drag this thing home before it starts leaking.”

“Gross,” Hajime frowned.  Hanamaki winked and threw a peace sign.

“Out, out, out!” Oikawa added, having returned from the kitchen only to flick his fingers at the two of them like they were stray dogs at the market.  “Out with you!” 

“We hear you loud and clear, captain,” Hanamaki slurred, heaving an arm around Matsukawa as the two made their way unsteadily toward the front door.  “It’s been a real pleasure!  Don’t get into too much trouble!  Don’t forget to drink some water!  Don’t let Oikawa drink that—”

The door slammed behind them.  Hajime frowned, crossing his arms across his chest.  Don’t let Oikawa drink what?  What the hell was that supposed to mean?  He turned around to ask Oikawa about it, only to find the man in question halfway through chugging the rest of the nasty ass punch concoction he’d made earlier.  The nasty ass punch concoction that was at least 75% vodka.  The nasty ass punch concoction that Oikawa _definitely did not need_ , considering how all of them were already tiptoeing that narrow line between pleasantly drunk and completely shitfaced.  Oikawa froze like a deer in headlights when he saw Hajime looking at him, the sudden stillness making punch leak out the sides of his cup and trail down his neck.

“Oi!  You put that down right now,” Hajime snapped, charging forward as Oikawa hastily threw the rest of it back, tossed the empty cup at him, and made a break for the stairs.

“Iwa-chan _nooooo_ ,” he shrieked, tripping on the first step and then crawling the rest of the way instead of getting back up.  Hajime grabbed for him—and missed—twice. 

“You’re gonna puke everywhere, I swear to fucking god, you’re going to puke on _me_ —” he snarled out, finally clasping a hand into the back of Oikawa’s shirt.  They’d already made it to the second floor and halfway towards the bedroom, so Hajime felt alright about yanking the fabric as hard as humanly possible without fear of sending them flying down the stairs.  Oikawa fell back against Hajime’s legs but immediately struggled against the restraint, fake-dialing the police as he tried to fight Hajime off with his feet.  Somehow, Hajime was still upright. 

“Officer-chan!” he cried into his phone, “I’m being attacked by an ugly beast!  It’s trying to undress me and do terrible things to my body!”

Hajime could practically feel the steam come out of his ears.  He stopped yanking at Oikawa’s shirt in favor of pushing him into the floor and pressing his face against the carpet.  “I’m trying to save you from yourself, Shittykawa!”

Oikawa whined weakly in response.  “Iwa-chan, I’m dying.  This is it.  This is the end.”

“I told you, dumbass.  Just because there’s alcohol left over doesn’t mean you have to chug it.”

“Says the guy who finished off a six pack on his own and still went for another.”

Hajime didn’t have any defense for that.  He couldn’t help the grin that split his face or the loud laughter that bubbled up and fought its way out.  He released his hold on the back of Oikawa’s head in favor of grabbing his hands instead, pulling the setter to his feet.

“Are you done?” he questioned, watching Oikawa teeter dangerously.

“Absolutely.”

Hajime turned carefully to walk into Oikawa’s bedroom, trying to steady both his feet _and_ his vision, but between one step and the next he found himself tumbling to the ground with Oikawa collapsing hard on top of him.  His breath whooshed out painfully as Oikawa managed to plant _both_ of his pointy-ass knees into the backs of Hajime’s thighs, jabbing them down even harder as he flailed around uselessly. 

“Are you kidding me?” Hajime spat out, squirming until he could turn himself over and prop himself up on his elbows, peering down at the pile of cackling idiot curled around his legs.  “You said you were done, asshole!”

“Iwa-chan was moving too slow,” Oikawa wheezed out between giggles, scooting until he was sitting across Hajime’s thighs instead.  His hands burned at Hajime’s waist and hip from where he was attempting to balance himself. 

“Of course I was.  I can barely walk straight, and apparently you can’t walk at all.”

“Don’t be silly, Iwa-chan.  I’m the picture of sobriety,” Oikawa announced haughtily, twisting his eyebrows in mock seriousness and raising one long finger in the air next to his head like he was making some grand declaration.  It almost worked, even, but his lips started twitching after half a second and then he was laughing again, loud and happy and unrestrained.  It was almost enough to make Hajime forgive him for letting them get to this point.  Still, he made a show of scowling and smacking at Oikawa’s face.

“I call the entire bed!  You’re on the floor tonight, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa yelped as he dodged, making a move to scramble to his feet—as if Hajime was going to let that happen.

“Oh no you don’t, asswipe, there’s no fucking way,” he growled, grabbing at Oikawa’s ankles and yanking him down again.  As Hajime should have expected, things quickly dissolved from there into an even more uncoordinated wrestling match than the first one.  They rolled around like little kids, pushing and pulling at anything they could reach and not actually managing to land any hits.  Hajime’s brain was a sluggish mess, his body moving without consulting it first as the colors of his bedroom walls and Oikawa’s t-shirt and the carpeting beneath them melted into each other in a blurry kaleidoscope.  Oikawa was still cackling madly as the room shifted around them, his skin soft and warm beneath Hajime’s hands and his eyes squeezed tight in laughter.  Hajime wasn’t doing any better, he realized after some indeterminate amount of time.  He was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

Finally, breathless and exhausted, they settled.  They’d made their way across the floor to the foot of Oikawa’s bed, random books and papers and dirty laundry scattered around them like the aftermath of a hurricane, Oikawa’s phone charger digging into his shoulder blade and Oikawa himself draped atop his chest in a useless, heavy heap.  Hajime stared up at the ceiling, still trying to catch his breath and keep the room from spinning.  Every time he inhaled Oikawa’s body rose above him.  Oikawa’s face was somewhere off to the side, his laughter having finally faded into winded silence. 

 _Ok_ , he decided with drunken determination.  He had to get up.  He really, really needed to get up and crawl into bed before he passed out on the floor, and he also needed to get some water into Oikawa unless he wanted to wake up to a whole lot of whining.  Grunting, he planted his hands on the floor and raised his knees off the ground in an effort to gain some kind of leverage.  Oikawa must have made the decision to move at the same exact time, though, because right as Hajime’s body shifted forwards so did Oikawa’s.  It was enough to completely unbalance him, and he fell back to the floor as Oikawa’s momentum carried him further into Hajime.  And that, he would realize the next morning, was the moment that everything went to shit. 

Because of _course_ karma would stomp Hajime into the ground for allowing Oikawa to get him this drunk.  Because of _course_ their lack of coordination managed to press them so tightly together that touching everywhere was inevitable.  And everywhere, unfortunately, meant everywhere.

Hajime couldn’t help the strangled gasp that left his mouth as their hips aligned.  Neither could Oikawa, apparently, because he sucked in a tight breath by Hajime’s ear and then fell abruptly still.  Hajime blinked.  One second went by, several more.  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of Hajime trying to process what had just happened and ultimately failing, he felt Oikawa squirm against him in what was probably an attempt to ignore whatever had just happened and just get up anyway.  It was enough, though, to make Hajime’s hips twitch upwards on their own accord, the movement startling another aborted sound out of Oikawa that was pitched in a way that didn’t make sense to Hajime.  None of this made sense, actually.  All he knew was that everything was feeling very, very good all of a sudden, and it wasn’t just the beer.

They both held still for another few seconds, completely frozen and holding their breath, stewing in the silence of the room and stretching out whatever this strange moment was until Hajime was sure it was going to snap.  It was like they were perched on the precarious ledge of some rocky precipice, staring down into a dark abyss and trying to decide whether or not to jump.  It was confusing and unnerving and Hajime didn’t know why—didn’t know what was happening, really, or why it started happening, or what Oikawa was thinking.  He didn’t even know what _he_ was thinking beneath the layer of thick fog that coated the inside of his skull.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to think.  Oikawa took the leap for them. 

In a measured, cautious move, he turned his face further into Hajime’s neck, his breath puffing out soft and warm as his hips began to move in a wide circle against Hajime’s own, so excruciatingly slow that Hajime wasn’t even sure he was doing anything at first.  Oikawa’s body sank further into Hajime’s as he went, though, his movements careful yet purposeful, and before he knew it Hajime was gripping his fists in the fabric of Oikawa’s shirt and moving right back against him.  Slow.  So very, very slow.

Still, though, the pressure was incredible.  Hajime could feel little sparks at the contact, bright and warm and burning steadily in his core.  They were barely doing anything, barely moving at all, and yet Hajime found himself lifting his hips even further to meet Oikawa’s, breath starting to come loud and quick in the quiet room.  The action caused Oikawa to stutter in his own movements, his lips parting around a startled sound that landed wetly on Hajime’s neck and made him shiver.  He seemed to recover quickly though because he curled even closer into Hajime, forearms bracing against either side of Hajime’s head and back arching upwards so that his face could remain tucked into Hajime’s shoulder.  His hips were pressing down more firmly now, moving more confidently, and with a start Hajime realized why this felt so good: his dick was hard.  His dick.  Was hard.  _Shit_.  Hajime’s goddamn dick was hard, and Oikawa was on top of him, and Hajime wasn’t putting a stop to this.

His dick was hard.  Oikawa Tooru had given him a boner.

Hajime felt the sudden urge to start laughing uncontrollably.  He could feel his eyebrows lifting in incredulous, panicked amusement and wow, he must be really drunk still, because what the fuck was happening?  Did Oikawa realize what they were doing?  Did anyone?  Did god?  His own mother?  Fuck, he hoped not his mother—she remembered that he was staying the night at Oikawa’s, right?  Either he had had way more to drink than he thought he did, or he was in some alternate dimension, or he was finally losing his mind after all these years of being best friends with a horrible person, because how else could they have gotten to this point?  How was his dick hard?  How was he not putting an end to this?  How—

Hajime didn’t get much farther in that train wreck of a thought process, because Oikawa’s hips decided to switch from slow, wide circles to tight rolls that aligned them just right, the new friction surprising loud moans out of both of them.  The sound made Hajime’s hips slam upwards _again_ and his fists curl even tighter into the back of Oikawa’s shirt, his nails digging in, and oh.  Huh.  As it turned out, Oikawa was hard too.  _Obviously_ , chastised the voice in Hajime’s head, _of course he’s hard, what do you think this is all about?_   Except that was the problem, wasn’t it?  Hajime didn’t have the slightest idea.  His dick was hard, and Oikawa’s dick was hard, and the carpet was scratchy and the sky was blue and volleyballs were round and Hajime was still on the verge of laughing like a goddamn lunatic.

Before Hajime could lose his mind entirely, though, Oikawa slid his face out from where it’d been tucked up against Hajime’s neck and rested his forehead against Hajime’s own.  Seeing him like this was grounding but also super fucking weird.  Had their faces ever been this close before?  Well, other than when Hajime was headbutting him or when Oikawa was being an obnoxious shithead?  Were his eyelashes always that long?  Did Oikawa actually wax his eyebrows, or did they naturally grow like that?  Hajime wrenched his gaze away from them with considerable effort, shifting slightly lower so that they could make eye contact.  Oikawa’s pupils were blown wide and black, his expression mildly bewildered but his eyes shining with an intensity that made Hajime’s breath catch in his throat.  So.  This was fine.  At least Oikawa looked half as shocked at this turn of events as Hajime felt.  He also looked really, really good.

In a fit of abrupt and illogical anger, Hajime threw a leg up around Oikawa’s waist and flipped them over as efficiently as his uncooperative limbs could manage.  (So, not at all.)  They rolled in what seemed like slow motion, and somehow Hajime ended up with an arm stuck under Oikawa’s back and his thigh between each of Oikawa’s own, Oikawa grinning up at him wide and smug.  His expression made Hajime even angrier, so he wrenched his arm out and slammed his palm down right by Oikawa’s head.

“What the fuck?  What the actual fuck are you doing?” he managed in between sharp rolls of hips, accusatory despite his own active participation.  Each movement caused Oikawa’s eyelids to flutter and his body to kind of scoot against the floor a little bit.  If Hajime thought even a little bit about how their dicks were touching through a couple layers of fabric then his brain was going to melt, so he just didn’t.  He didn’t think.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa gasped out, still half-grinning up at him despite barely being able to keep his eyes open.  He was flushed pink, either from the alcohol or from whatever this was or both.  “ _Iwa-chan_.”

Hajime snarled, moving his leg forward until they were completely slotted together and Oikawa was curling one of his own legs around Hajime’s back.  “What,”—he snapped his hips harder, the grin falling from Oikawa’s lips—“kind,”—and again, Oikawa’s mouth dropping open—“of response,”—a third time, Oikawa moaning high and broken—“ _is that?_ ”

“Nngh,” was all Hajime got in reply before Oikawa was executing some kind of advanced gymnastics routine that resulted in Hajime on his back again with Oikawa perched on top of him.  This was turning into way, way too much rolling around and Hajime was honestly surprised that his stomach wasn’t rebelling any more than it already was.  Before Hajime could curse Oikawa out, though, he was planting both hands on Hajime’s shoulders, throwing his head back in a way that should have looked dumb but really, really didn’t, and rocking them together even faster.  Hajime’s eyes squeezed shut at the feeling as he gripped the carpet beneath them for dear life, but he peeled them back open as soon as he could breathe again because for some reason he knew that he needed to see this.  He needed to see the look on Oikawa’s face, his stupid eyebrows pulling together as a bead of sweat trickled down his long neck and into the collar of his rumpled shirt and—fuck.  What were they _doing_?

“Oikawa,” he choked out, “What are you—”

Oikawa panted harshly above him, his head tipping back down so he could look at Hajime.  His expression was almost frantic.  He was biting at his lower lip intermittently, whining high and choked as his movements became more haphazard.

“Just—I’m so— _Iwa-chan_ ,” he gasped, cutting himself off with a low moan as his hips twitched hard and his body fell forward against Hajime’s, the sudden change surprising Hajime into stillness.  Oikawa lay there for a long moment, warm and tense save for his trembling thighs, before he shuddered weakly and melted into a boneless, sweaty pile.  A boneless, sweaty pile that _wasn’t moving anymore_ , Hajime thought with a growl, and that wasn’t what he wanted—wasn’t what he needed right now.  Trying to reclaim some friction, he used Oikawa’s newfound pliability to roll them over one more time, his head spinning slightly at the effort. 

“I hate you so much,” he managed between jerky thrusts, his body still about twenty paces ahead of his mind.  Oikawa just looked up at him blearily, eyes almost completely closed as he panted hard and made little breathy _ah_ ’s each time Hajime moved against him.  Apparently that was the last straw, because in what should have been an expected finale (but still managed to shock him like a slap to the face), Hajime did something terrible: he came in his pants.

And then immediately fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about unintentionally dry humping your best friend into the carpet was that it made it impossible to think about anything else.  Just looking at Oikawa was enough to send him into cardiac arrest, and considering how that was all Hajime _could_ do anymore it was a surprise he was still in the land of the living.  Oikawa wasn’t making things easier, either, because he kept staring at Hajime right back—Hajime’d felt eyes on him all goddamn day and it was getting to the point where he was either going to explode or punch someone or strangle himself with his left hand while digging his own grave with the right.

It was exhausting.  _Infuriating_.  And it wasn’t getting any better.

He’d woken up on Sunday morning to a dry mouth, a throbbing head, and crusty briefs, Oikawa still passed out halfway underneath him and drooling steadily into Hajime’s shoulder.  He’d had no other choice but to run away as fast as humanly possible, of course, so that’s exactly what he’d done.  And then he’d sat at home.  And paced.  And ignored his phone.  And avoided thinking about how Oikawa would’ve woken up by then and realized what they’d done.  And attempted to nurse his hangover while failing to wrestle his newfound existential crisis, because where was the protocol for this?  The how-to guide?  The self-help book?  The motivational speech?  Hajime was dazed and confused and angry as hell, honestly, because what was a guy supposed to do when he accidentally got off with his childhood friend?  His _male_ childhood friend who he’d never, ever thought of in that way before?

But that just brought up another problem, because accidentally rubbing off on someone while drunk was never going to be equivalent to purposefully rubbing off on them while sober.  Hajime wasn’t even sure if he was thinking about Oikawa ‘in that way’ _now_ , now that they’d done…whatever they’d done.  Oikawa was attractive, sure, and there was a reason why girls flocked to him in droves (besides the fact that they didn’t know what a shithead he actually was): he was tall and fit and had a symmetrical face and took care of his hair and everything else that made someone objectively desirable.  Hajime knew that.  But he’d never _known_ it either.  He still didn’t, really.

It wasn’t that he’d never considered his sexuality before.  Well.  Maybe that was a lie.  Hajime just didn’t have time to think about things like that because he was too busy with school and volleyball and Oikawa.  He noticed girls once in a while, liked the bounce of their ponytails and the dip of their waists and the way they smelled like something other than boy-sweat.  He’d watched the girls’ volleyball team play many times and appreciated their talent and strength.  He’d noticed when guys on another school’s team were good-looking too, admired their legs and arms and the curve of their backs as they prepared to spike or serve.  He’d never felt _attracted_ to them before, though, or at least he didn’t think he had.  It just wasn’t something he concerned himself with.

It’d always been school.  And volleyball.  (And Oikawa.)

Thinking about it like that hadn’t helped Hajime, so by Sunday afternoon he’d stopped beating himself up about it.  He wasn’t an introspective guy and probably wouldn’t ever be, so why start?  Just thinking about it wasn’t going to make him feel better, and it wouldn’t relieve the confusion he was feeling.  So.  That left the only alternative.  It wasn’t savory, and it wasn’t going to be fun, but it was the only thing Hajime could do:  he had to confront Oikawa on Monday.

So all of that brought things to where they were now.  Hajime’d spent the entire day avoiding direct interaction with Oikawa while simultaneously preparing himself to _stop_ avoiding direct interaction with Oikawa, but there hadn’t been a good time to bring anything up.  Oikawa didn’t seem too keen on making the first move either.  He’d been staring at Hajime, sure, but he also hadn’t made any effort to get him alone.  They’d exchanged somewhat normal conversation before and during classes—(“Good morning, Iwa-chan, you’re looking crabby as usual”, “Screw you, Oikawa”)—but it was brief and stilted and they hadn’t been able to look each other directly in the eye while doing so.  (Well, at least Hajime hadn’t.)  Afternoon practice had been even worse, because they couldn’t sync as they usually did and it messed up the entire team.  Hanamaki and Matsukawa had kept giving them overly sympathetic looks while stage-whispering about alien abduction and marital problems.

Hajime’d ignored them. 

What he _couldn’t_ ignore were Oikawa’s legs.  And arms.  And face.  And everything, really.  He kept staring, and while he was staring he was worrying that Oikawa didn’t remember what happened at all or that he’d end up _pretending_ that he didn’t remember, and then maybe Hajime would have to deal with this shit on his own.  That train of thought would have probably resulted in a total meltdown, except that whenever he caught Oikawa staring it was with a weird look on his face.  Weird, but familiar.  Something like the one he wore while watching game recordings late into the night.  Something calculating.

He remembered.  Hajime could tell.  The only question was what Oikawa was going to do about it, and how long it was going to take him to do it.

Hajime didn’t have time for that.  He was going to act first.  He kept that decision in mind as he lingered in the locker room after practice, showering and dressing slowly to make sure that the rest of the team would be ready to leave before him.  Luckily, they filtered out without a fight—even Hanamaki and Matsukawa left with minimal blabbering, skipping over their usual routine of pestering Hajime as he waited to walk home with Oikawa.  He didn’t have to worry about Oikawa himself moving too quickly—the setter was notorious for his lengthy showers and accompanying post-shower routine. 

All Hajime had to do was hang out and try not to panic.  He leaned up against his locker and busied himself with his phone, tapping his foot restlessly as he listened to Oikawa’s off-tune singing and the beat of water against tile.  This was fine.  He could do this.  All he had to do was put on a stern face, refuse to budge, and force Oikawa to tell him what he’d been thinking Saturday night.  Easy.

Hajime almost jumped out of his skin when the door between the showers and the lockers slammed open.  Oikawa emerged in a cloud of steam, his towel slung low on his hips and his face flushed pink from the heat.  Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem for Hajime.  Normally.  Oikawa paused when he saw him there—blinked owlishly a couple of times—and then continued walking over to the bench to grab his clothes. 

“Iwa-chan!  I thought you’d abandoned me already,” he said lightly, eyeing Hajime as turned slightly away, dropping the towel and reaching for his underwear.  It was with considerable difficulty that Hajime avoided looking down, which was not a problem he was used to having.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he grunted, shuffling his feet and thumbing distractedly at his phone screen.

“Oh please.  I know you can’t bear the thought of walking home without me,” Oikawa winked, pulling his shorts over his hips a lot slower than he normally would.  He still hadn’t tilted his face away from Hajime’s direction.

There was a weighty pause for the next few seconds.  Hajime grit his teeth.

“So,” he began awkwardly, clearing his throat.  “About Saturday.”

Oikawa smiled, finally breaking eye contact so that he could slip his shirt over his head.  A stray droplet of water slid down his lower back, distracting Hajime enough that he didn’t know what to say next.

“Yes, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa hummed, so stupidly calm and blasé that Hajime could feel a scream building in his own throat.

He swallowed thickly.  “Well.  I just.  I mean, we should probably talk about what happened.”

Oikawa turned back to face him and walked over until they were about two feet apart.  Hajime’s palms were sweating.  When Oikawa didn’t say anything in response, Hajime huffed out a breath and put his phone in his pocket.  “Seriously,” he ground out with a bit more assurance.  “I don’t know what the hell happened, and if we don’t talk about it then it’s just going to get weirder and weirder.  Don’t you dare pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Oikawa tilted his head, narrowing his eyes a bit as he sucked at the inside of his cheek.  He stayed like that for a full five seconds before smiling softly.  Striding forward, he moved close enough that their toes were practically touching.  Hajime swallowed again and tried to keep his eyes from flicking away, unable to say anything.  After another moment of silence in which Hajime was sure he was going to snap and punch something, Oikawa slid even closer and caged Hajime in with his arms, trapping him against the locker.  The metal felt cool and hard against his back.

“Iwa-chan, will you let me try something?” Oikawa asked, soft and intense.

Hajime blinked.  He could feel his face twisting into an even mixture between confusion and bewildered anger, could feel his hands balling up into fists at his sides.  Oikawa just stared steadily back, though, and didn’t make any of the obnoxious comments or pokes at Hajime like he usually would. 

“Not unless you tell me what the hell it is,” Hajime finally managed to get out.  Oikawa was crowded in so close that Hajime had to crane his neck upwards to maintain eye contact.  _That bastard._

Instead of answering, Oikawa moved one of his hands from the side of Hajime’s head and rested it on Hajime’s chest.  It was large and warm and completely unexpected.  Hajime flinched, making a move to reach up and tear it away, but before he could do so Oikawa began trailing it steadily downwards.  He moved extremely slowly, his long fingers tracing burning lines down Hajime’s sternum until his thumb rested at the bottom of his ribcage.  Hajime froze.  He didn’t know how to react—couldn’t figure out what to say, couldn’t yell at Oikawa to stop whatever the hell he was doing and just communicate like a normal person—and his stunned stillness was apparently enough of a sign for Oikawa to keep going.  His hand skated further, spreading out over Hajime’s abs and then tracing lower until it slipped beneath Hajime’s shirt. 

The skin-on-skin contact was scalding.  Hajime’s eyebrows were still pulled together, a scowl still on his lips, but neither of those things prevented him from making a soft noise at the feeling.  Oikawa pet him there, gently, thumb rubbing circles at the jut of his right hipbone before his entire hand slid under the waistband of Hajime’s shorts.

Hajime choked.

“Oikawa, I swear to god,” he mumbled, strained, “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing, because I sure don’t.”

Oikawa lifted his eyes from where he’d been staring at his own hand.  He quirked a sly smile, blinking innocently.  “I understand, it’s okay.  Iwa-chan is inexperienced.”

“Hey!” Hajime barked, blushing furiously, “That’s not what I meant and you know it!  What _is_ this?  What are we—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish because Oikawa straight up curled his fingers around Hajime’s dick.  Hajime’s head slammed back against the locker, the resulting clang echoing loudly as he ground his teeth together.  This was not going like he’d planned.

“Oikawa, you— _fuck_ —why are you—”

“Can I?” Oikawa interrupted, whispering, his voice low and earnest.  “Iwa-chan, can I?”

Hajime shivered and cracked open his eyelids in order to get a look at him.  Oikawa’s expression was serious and his face was so fucking close and his hand was on Hajime’s dick and— _shit_. 

He swallowed firmly, squeezing his eyes back shut and huffing out a breath.  He already knew what his answer was, and he wasn’t going to live through this, but, “…Fine,” he croaked back.  “Fine.”

Because for all of his confusion and anger, for all that they should really be talking about this instead of acting on it, for all that Hajime didn’t know about liking guys or—more importantly—liking Oikawa, he wanted this.  He didn’t know why and he sure as hell had never considered any of it before, but he did.  And apparently Oikawa did too.

They could use words later.

Oikawa didn’t move immediately after Hajime agreed to his shitty plan.  His hand stayed gently curled for a long moment, large and warm and _very much_ _not Hajime’s own_ , before it tightened just a tad—just enough to make Hajime pull in a tight breath through his teeth.  Oikawa stroked him carefully, slowly, his calluses dragging against the smooth skin and making Hajime twitch.  It was nothing that he hadn’t done to himself before.  Nothing about it should have been incredible or overwhelming, and yet Hajime felt like he was already losing it.  There was absolutely nothing that could have prepared him to be jerked off by his best friend.  Well, in a way Saturday night had been a sort of trial run, he guessed.  There was a massive difference between rolling around in their clothes and having Oikawa’s actual goddamn hand on his actual goddamn dick, though. 

Oikawa moved faster then, but not by much.  Hajime was thankful.  If he picked up the speed too much then things were going to end very, very quickly.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispered, his breath sweeping across Hajime’s nose and forehead.  The sound startled him, made him jerk a little as he realized his eyes were still closed.  He opened them cautiously to find that Oikawa had moved even closer and that he was peering down at Hajime intently, eyes dark and cheeks slightly flushed.  It was too much.

“What,” he ground out, his voice lifting embarrassingly at the end as Oikawa twisted his fist. 

“I like you like this,” Oikawa whispered back, thumbing at the head and watching as Hajime panted heavily. 

His words made Hajime choke.  “Fuck,” he gasped, fighting against the impulse to close his eyes again.  “What does that even mean?!”

“You’re so nice this way,” Oikawa responded lightly.  His voice was an interesting mix between teasing and genuine, leaving Hajime uncertain as to whether he wanted to punch him or melt into the tile below and never return to Aoba Johsai again.  He was leaning towards the former.

“Sh-shut up, loser,” was all he managed.  Pathetic.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe, his hands scrabbling fruitlessly at the lockers behind him as his eyes flicked from Oikawa’s face to his neck to down to where he was touching Hajime.  That was probably the worst part—just seeing Oikawa’s hand in the general vicinity of his crotch was ludicrous, let alone _inside his pants_.  At least Oikawa hadn’t pulled his shorts down, because Hajime definitely wasn’t ready to see what was happening.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, though, Oikawa did what he always did:  exactly the opposite of what Hajime wanted.  He shifted the hand that was still caging Hajime in from the lockers to his shorts, tugging them down just enough to free Hajime’s dick and Oikawa’s other hand along with it.  _Fuck_.  That was worse.  It was definitely, definitely worse, because now Hajime could see the way he looked against the pale of Oikawa’s skin; the way Oikawa’s fingers were becoming slick with precome as they worked him harder.

He groaned helplessly, almost knocking his head into Oikawa’s because both of them were pressing their chins to their chests in order to look down.  Their cheeks brushed together, sticky with sweat, as Oikawa’s breath picked up and his free hand clutched at the fabric of Hajime’s shirt. 

“Iwa-chan,” he whispered, voice thick as his fingers squeezed tighter, “You’re so wet.”

Hajime snarled, removing one of his hands from the lockers so he could grip the side of Oikawa’s neck.  His hips snapped forward without his permission.  “Fuck you.”

Oikawa barked out a surprised laugh.  He gave Hajime two harsh strokes, twisting meanly, and that was all it took.  Hajime came hard, come spilling onto Oikawa’s shirt as his head hit the lockers and he groaned up at the ceiling.  Oikawa made a noise along with him, his hand falling slack with shock before tightening up and working Hajime through it, only backing off when Hajime went limp.

It took him a minute to catch his breath.  Sparks of light and wild veiny patterns faded as he unclenched his eyelids, his head slumping forward as he tried not to tip right over.  Fuck.  That had been an intense orgasm.  An intense orgasm that _Oikawa_ gave him in the _goddamn locker room_.  Shit.

He finally recovered enough to open his eyes, brain trapped in some tragic purgatory between numbness and disbelief, only to find that Oikawa had slipped a hand down his own shorts and was now jerking himself off at a rapid-fire pace.  He was staring right at Hajime as he did so, pupils enormous and mouth parted slightly.

“Iwa-chan,” he whined, pawing at Hajime’s shirt collar as he gripped himself tighter. 

“Is that all you can say?” Hajime asked, eyes drooping with exhaustion.  He quirked a fond grin, shoving aside his near-panic and sliding a hand onto Oikawa’s chest instead.  The contact made Oikawa’s eyes widen slightly and his breath stutter a bit.  Hajime slid his hand down until it rested on the one Oikawa had wrapped around his cock.

“Move over,” he grunted.  Oikawa obeyed, removing his own hand and joining it with the one he already had tangled in Hajime’s shirt.  Hajime gripped his dick gently, smoothing his thumb along its length as Oikawa’s hips twitched.  The sensation was so close and yet so very different from touching himself, the feel of it familiar in his hand yet without the usual associated _feeling_.  So, fine.  He was touching his friend’s dick, and he was fine.  It was even kind of nice.  He stroked Oikawa fully then, base to tip, and was just about ready to really go for it when Oikawa yelped in his ear and came all over his fist.

Hajime blinked.

“Seriously, Oikawa?  Are you kidding me?”

Oikawa just whined into Hajime’s neck, whipping his head back and forth and slapping at Hajime’s chest with one hand as the other clutched his shirt even tighter.  Hajime carried him through his orgasm until he was boneless and trembling, wrapping an arm around his back to keep him from slipping onto the floor.

“This doesn’t mean we’re not talking about it,” he said after a while, when Oikawa’s breathing slowed to something verging on normal.  Oikawa slowly straightened up and relinquished his grip until they had a bit of space between them.

“Mm,” he hummed in vague agreement.  “Later, Iwa-chan.  For now let’s just walk home and hope no one sees how disgusting you look.”

“ _I_ look?  _I look_?!  What about you, asshole, you literally have come all over your—”

Oikawa didn’t let him finish.  He leaned back in, cupped Hajime’s cheeks and pressed their mouths together.  It was gentle and light and lasted just a moment before he pulled back to laugh at Hajime’s shocked face.

“C’mon, Iwa-chan.  If you think too much you’ll hurt yourself.”

Hajime stomped on Oikawa’s foot as hard as he could, but he did take the advice.  Something about the familiarity of Oikawa’s subsequent theatric whining made him feel better.  Sure, he didn’t know what he was doing, and sure, they’d have to talk about what this meant.  But right now it didn’t matter.  The most important thing was that Oikawa was Hajime’s best friend and partner both on and off the court, and Hajime definitely hadn’t hated touching his dick.

Maybe this was something they could figure out along the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all your kind words!!! This was a lot of fun!


End file.
